


in advance

by M0stlyVoid



Series: Kinktober 2020 [25]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bondage, Dom Harry Potter, Dom/sub, Gags, Kink Exploration, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Safe Sane and Consensual, Shibari, Sub Draco Malfoy, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:47:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27212164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M0stlyVoid/pseuds/M0stlyVoid
Summary: Draco's been scared of fire since the Battle of Hogwarts. Harry likes wax play. This is how they work together to face Draco's fear and get what they both want.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Kinktober 2020 [25]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1948741
Comments: 29
Kudos: 191





	in advance

**Author's Note:**

> the october 25 prompt for kinktober 2020 is— _wax play_.

“I want to try it,” Draco tries to say insistently, eyes fixed on the candles floating behind Harry, but since he’s got a ball gag in, it doesn’t exactly come out intelligibly.

Harry seems to get it, though, because he stills the motion of his hand—Draco whines and squirms for more stimulation, but a sharp slap to his inner thigh soon quiets him—and the candles float closer.

Draco feels pinned in place by Harry’s gaze, but he can’t meet his eyes, mesmerized by the flickering candles—silver, gold, and blue, and all emitting a sweet almond scent—and Harry has to tap him on the chin to draw his attention back.

Harry tilts his head and watches him wordlessly for a moment, and Draco realizes he’s trembling, not from arousal but from nerves, or maybe even fear—it’s hard to tell when he’s this far down—and it’s with a mixture of disappointment and relief when Harry shakes his head minutely and the candles slide back to where they were.

“Not yet,” Harry says firmly. “You’re not ready yet. You’ll know when you are.”

His fingers crook and twist inside Draco, and his head lowers back to his cock, and Draco bucks and pulls against the restraints at his wrists and ankles, and his eyes roll back in his head, and he drifts off, the question of the candles put to the side for another time.

* * *

The next day, when they’re at dinner and Harry’s finally satisfied that Draco’s all the way back in his own head, they talk about it.

Sort of.

“But what do you _mean_ I’ll know when I’m ready,” Draco complains. He knows he sounds whiny, and from the sharp glance Harry sends his way knows he’ll probably be paying for it later, but he’s _frustrated_. “Isn’t it just...just a matter of deciding to try it, of feeling brave enough to give it a shot even if I’m still scared?”

Harry had started shaking his head halfway through Draco’s words. “No,” he replies, leaning over and spearing one of Draco’s chips with his fork. Draco squawks in protest—Harry hadn’t ordered chips with his dinner, _I’m not in the mood and I need to watch my carbs anyway,_ so he shouldn’t be bloody _stealing_ from Draco’s plate—but Harry winks at him and tops off his wine, so Draco settles back into his chair, grumbling.

They’re at the soft opening of some French-Italian fusion place that Draco got invited to through the Slytherin social tree, and Harry had begged him to accept; apparently, the chef is quite well-known in the Muggle world. This conversation is probably not appropriate for the table they’d been dragged to when the maitre d’ had seen who exactly was arriving under the false name Draco gave when he sent their RSVP back, but Harry has long left shame behind, and Draco never had any to start with. He thinks the waiter may have gotten a bit of an earful when he was delivering the main course, but he had been professional enough to not react.

“That’s part of it, yes, but Draco...I can see in your eyes when you’re feeling a little nervous about something but eager to try, and when you’re properly scared. And you’re still too afraid of fire for this to be enjoyable for you at _all,_ and you know that the last thing I want is for you to feel like shit at the end of a session.”

Draco sighs and ducks his head. “I know,” he mutters sulkily. “I just… It makes me so _angry,_ that I’m still so frightened of fire. I mean. They’re bloody _candles,_ and the flame won’t even be anywhere near me, not really, and I know you have a spell that keeps it from even _remotely_ touching my skin, but…”

Harry’s hand covers his, and Draco stills. “Fears aren’t always rational in how they manifest,” he says quietly, and Draco closes his eyes briefly, letting himself be soothed. “You know I get about the woods. Remember how I almost ruined Beltane last year? It isn’t your _fault,_ Draco, it’s just something your brain does to protect itself. You’ll get there. Or you won’t, and that’s fine too.”

Draco heaves a deep sigh. “I know. I _know_. But I _want_ to, for you. I know you like it.”

Harry smiles at him and pulls his hand back as the waiter brings over their dessert orders. “I do, but I like you more,” he says, flashing Draco his dimples and oh that is just _not_ playing fair. “It isn’t necessary to my happiness. You are. You know that.”

Draco preens, cutting daintily into his cheesecake. “I suppose I do. But it _is_ nice to hear you say it every now and then.”

“ _Every now and then,_ ” Harry scoffs, kicking Draco’s shin lightly. “If I praised you any more, you’d swell up like a balloon and float away.” Harry gets an odd little smile when he says that, but Draco’s learned to ignore his various quirks.

“I deserve it,” he says primly, glancing pointedly at Harry’s sorbet. “If you don’t hurry, I’m likely to eat that, you know.”

“You won’t,” Harry says cheerily. “It’s not pistachio, it’s mint.”

Draco gags.

* * *

The next weekend, Harry’s got Draco bound all up in his magic and dangling from the ceiling, and Draco’s having trouble keeping his eyes open as Harry watches him from across the room. He’s set a vibrator to float in midair, pressing against the skin just behind Draco’s balls, and Draco’s aware he’s making high, whimpery noises as his cock twitches and dribbles precome, but he can’t bring himself to care. It feels so _good_.

He focuses when he hears Harry’s footsteps, and barely stops himself from jerking an arm (the way Harry’s silvery magic has him bound, it would _hurt_ ) when he notices a slim blue tapered candle floating along.

Harry stops a couple feet away from Draco, just out of arm’s reach, and the candle pauses obediently with him. Draco’s gaze is stuck on the flame again, that familiar prickle of fear-excitement-nerves racing over his skin, and he must move just a bit, because his shoulders scream and his legs cramp and the vibrator is suddenly directly _on_ his bollocks and much less pleasant.

Waving a hand, Harry sets him to rights before Draco can even cry out, and he relaxes back into the comforting embrace of Harry’s magic. He still watches the candle, but his eyes are half-closed now, and he feels—safe. It’s not close enough to hurt him, and anyway, Harry’s right there. Harry’s always right there.

The vibrations increase suddenly, and Harry’s mind brushes over his own, a command that couldn’t be clearer if it were spoken aloud, and Draco screams and comes all over the floor.

* * *

When it happens again the next time—Harry keeping a candle nearby, a few inches closer to Draco than before—Draco realizes what’s happening. It’s a good plan; Harry must be operating under the assumption that if Draco can relax with the candles coming infinitesimally closer each time they play, eventually he’ll be relaxed to allow it close enough for what they want and they’ll both be able to enjoy themselves, instead of Draco breaking out in a sweat and sobbing like he did the first time they tried. He’d almost worked himself into a panic attack before Harry could even tip the candle over his torso, and had been so distressed he couldn’t even safeword.

Luckily, Harry knows Draco’s body better than he knows his own, and he’d stopped immediately, and they’d taken a break for a few weeks to talk over exactly what went wrong, and why, and how they’d proceed. Harry had been distraught, had gotten as far as saying he’d never scene with Draco again before Draco was able to talk him down.

They’d put it behind them, and the candles that Harry always has lit in the playroom stayed on the dresser on the far side of the room, and that had been that until Draco first tried to say he was interested in trying again.

One evening, the silver candle is half a foot from Draco as Harry pins him by the throat and fucks him until he’s sobbing, and Draco had barely flinched when the candle came to a stop so close to his skin, and he knows in the back recesses of his mind that it’s time.

* * *

Harry asks that they not talk about it the next day, so Draco lets it go, but he lets Blaise know they won’t be making it to that Friday’s pub night, and makes sure he’s home before Harry is with drinks ready. He wants to talk about it now, wants to lay the discussion out, wants to make sure they’re both comfortable, because…

Well. He’s ready. He knows it, now. He knows what Harry meant all those weeks ago.

When Harry gets home, he looks surprised to see Draco dressed down in comfortable loungewear, but he dutifully trudges upstairs to change, then sinks into his chair and gratefully takes his drink when he comes back down. 

Draco lets him relax for a bit, but when Harry’s halfway through the drink, Draco sets his own aside and leans forward. “I want to try wax next time,” he says bluntly, and Harry chokes and sputters a bit. Rolling his eyes, Draco patiently waits—it can’t have been _that_ much of a surprise.

“What,” Harry manages to gasp out, and Draco sighs and glances pointedly over at the bar, which obligingly sends a glass of water zooming over. Harry takes a few sips and finally gets his breath back. “You. Really? Are you sure? I don’t want you to…”

“Harry, you said that I’d _know_ when I was ready, and I do. I know. I am,” Draco interrupts firmly. “Please don’t second-guess me; you promised you’d trust me on what I need and what I want, and if you stop that now this isn’t going to work.”

Harry nods frantically. “No, you’re right. I just. Wow. I didn’t ever really...I told you it’s okay if we never did, and I meant it, but I really…” He shifts, and Draco glaces down and raises an eyebrow at the bulge Harry’s already sporting.

“I _see,_ ” he says dryly, then spreads his thighs and leans back into the couch. Palming himself through his joggers, he winks at Harry. “Well, then; sounds like we’re on the same page for next time. For now, though...how about you come over here and suck my cock for a while, and then maybe later on I’ll fuck you?”

Harry scrambles over to kneel between his legs, mouthing at the outline of Draco’s cock through the thin material of his joggers. He moves back and pulls them down, then glances slyly up at Draco. “I’ll let you get away with this tonight; don’t expect to get away with much else, this week,” he says, and his voice is a dark promise, and Draco shivers even as he puts his head to the back of Harry’s head and pushes him down.

* * *

They set a date—well, Harry does, by sneaking past all the protective enchantments on Draco’s calendar and adding an entry himself, the bastard—and when the day arrives, Draco’s practically vibrating with anticipation from the moment he wakes up.

It doesn’t help that Harry decides to send him dirty notes all day long, and finally Draco has to retire to the back of his shop and focus on brewing instead of helping with customers, because really, it’s not becoming of the premier potions supplier in western Europe to conduct business with an erection.

When he finally steps through the front door that evening (and if he rushed the cleanup and maybe left a few things in stasis he’d normally finish before the weekend, well, there’s nobody to scold him but himself, and he can always open late on Monday), he discovers that Harry’s lined the entryway and the staircase up to their room with dainty tealights, in alternating silver and gold, with their tiny flames spelled to match. He smiles as he puts away his cloak and bag and shoves his shoes between their Quidditch boots in the closet—his man has been planning ahead, and nothing on this earth makes Draco feel more special than knowing how much time Harry’s spent thinking about ways to please him.

Well. There are maybe a few _other_ things.

He makes his way up the stairs, picking his way through the shadows, dropping his clothes off in their bedroom before he pads down the hallway to _the room_. He knocks gently once, and the door swings open.

The lights are off, and Harry hasn’t activated the balls of _Lumos_ light that bob near the ceiling, but the room is far from dark; there’s a ring of candles of all colours around the perimeter, floating halfway up the walls. Harry’s naked, too, and he’s spelled their saw horse into a large, comfortable-looking table. Draco can see that there are cuffs attached to all four corners, and he shivers slightly, then puts his gaze down to the floor and waits.

“Come lie down,” Harry says coaxingly; as if he thinks Draco needs to be gentled, to be talked into this, to be soothed.

He does not. He squares his shoulders and walks directly to the padded table, hoisting himself up and laying on his back, staring at the ceiling, already feeling himself slip into relaxation. He waits for Harry to make his next move. 

“I’m going to restrain you,” Harry continues in the same soft voice, stepping forward and drawing Draco’s arms back, clicking the cuffs around his wrists. The leather is buttery-soft, and Harry has them just tight enough so that Draco can feel them, but that they won’t leave marks; Draco despises marks the next day that don’t come from Harry’s hands or mouth.

Draco sighs and rolls his head a bit as Harry moves down to cuff his ankles, too. The table shifts under him, adjusting to the contours of his body until he’s perfectly supported.

Harry’s spelled the room up a few degrees, flirting with uncomfortably warm, and Draco can feel the prickle of sweat at his hairline even as his toes curl into the warmth. His body’s responding to the atmosphere—to the shadows, and the quiet, and the heat, and Harry’s soft, sibilant whispers that carry just a touch of whatever Parseltongue remains in his brain when he’s aroused. Draco’s hardening slowly, and he feels lazy, and boneless, and utterly at ease.

Whatever’s going to happen, will happen. Harry’s here.

Harry floats a fat, deep gold candle closer, setting it hovering off to Draco’s left side a couple feet above him while Harry moves around to Draco’s right and runs his hands down Draco’s body.

“You look amazing,” Harry whispers, and his hands are suddenly slick, dancing over Draco’s nipples and his ribcage and down to his inner thighs. “I love seeing you like this—still, and calm, and all spread out for _me_.” His fingernails dig into Draco’s hips briefly, and Draco hisses, but doesn’t tense. He _is_ for Harry, every inch of him, and he knows Harry earns that trust with every breath he takes.

The candle floats closer, and Draco’s eyes track it as it stops over his chest and begins to tilt.

“What’s your word, Draco?” Harry asks, just before the wax that’s melted hits the edge.

“Fluxweed,” Draco replies drowsily, and the first golden string of wax spills over the lip of the candle and lands on his chest.

It’s warm—warmer than anything Draco’s ever really felt touching his skin before, and his arms tense, but the pressure of the cuffs pulling his shoulders back reassures him, and he relaxes back into the table without a sound.

“Good,” Harry murmurs, and then the candle begins to pour in earnest, tracing random patterns up and down his torso at Harry’s direction.

At some point, Draco’s eyes slip closed, and he’s fuzzy and floating, only conscious of Harry’s heat at his side, and the bright liquid sparks where the wax hits, and the tightness of his skin where the wax has already cooled.

He’s not sure he could describe how it feels if he were asked, and he’s glad that Harry’s not demanding that of him for this; all he knows is that the patterns slowly looping over his body are lulling him better than any attempt at hypnosis, any Divination class in that small, stuffy, overperfumed tower room. He’s slipping down fast, faster than normal, and part of him wonders at that, that the thing he’s been frightened of for so long is bringing him peace so swiftly, but he’s too blissed-out to really consider it for too long.

By the time Harry works his way down to Draco’s thighs, he’s flying. He’s on a whole other level, even more than the one time they tried heavier impact play (which they’d decided was not for them). The threat of the hot wax so close to his cock and balls only ratchets his pleasure higher, and he’s aware that he’s gasping for air, and that Harry is cursing quietly under his breath, no doubt responding to the twitching of Draco’s cock and the golden swirls painting his body.

He considers opening his eyes, taking a glance down his body to see what exactly he looks like, but decides he doesn’t want to see. The feeling is enough for him, and anyway, his body belongs to Harry when they’re doing this—Harry decides who gets to see it.

“Harry,” he moans, whining through his teeth when Harry’s hand fondles his balls briefly and then disappears again. “Please.”

“Yeah,” Harry says softly, and Draco feels the whisper of a Banishing charm wash over his skin—probably Harry sending the candle back to whatever cabinet it’s kept in.

It’s quiet in the room for a minute except for the sounds of their breathing, then finally, _finally,_ Harry climbs up onto the table and moves Draco’s legs up to his shoulders.

Draco feels more than hears the spells Harry says next—cleaning, and lubrication, and loosening. Harry normally works him open manually, but sometimes they’re both too worked up to wait, and tonight is one of those nights.

Letting loose a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding, Draco moans long and loud as Harry pushes in, feeling the wax on his legs start to crack off and fall to his stomach.

Harry’s hand sneaks around to Draco’s cock and begins to stroke, long, languorous pulls that are about half the speed of his thrusts into Draco’s arse.

It’s enough, though; it always is, Harry knows exactly what Draco needs, every time, and it’s only a few minutes before Draco’s coming all over Harry’s fist.

“Fuck,” Harry whispers, speeding up, holding Draco’s thighs tight enough to bruise, until he comes too, hissing out what might be Draco’s name as he shoves his way in one last time.

Draco keeps his eyes closed as his legs are lowered back to the table; docilely, he allows himself to be manipulated, first as Harry cleans off his cock and arse, then as he releases him from the cuffs, and finally as he slowly, carefully removes all the wax.

“Wake up, Draco,” he finally hears, and he slowly opens his eyes and sits up, grabbing gratefully at the glass of water Harry’s left hovering for him. He looks down at his chest, almost shocked to see the angry red marks all over his skin.

Harry’s sitting at the other end of the table, eyes roving greedily over Draco’s body while he drinks. When he’s done, Draco Vanishes the glass and shoots Harry a tired smile. “Was it everything you wanted?” he asks, shocked at how hoarse his voice is. Was he shouting at some point? He can’t remember.

“It was incredible. _You_ were incredible. I’ve never seen anything like that,” Harry says fervently, moving closer and grabbing Draco’s arm, kissing from the back of his hand all the way up his arm until he gets to Draco’s face. Giggling, Draco allows him to smack kisses all over his cheeks for a minute, then pushes him away.

Snapping his fingers, Harry summons over a pot filled with a deep purple ointment. “It’s a healing salve,” he explains, unscrewing the cap and tilting it for Draco to see. “It’s for the marks...if you lie back down I’ll take care of it for you.”

Draco’s quiet for a minute, tracing over a bright red spiral on his upper thigh. It stings, and his skin prickles.

“I...think I’d rather leave it,” he says hesitantly, looking up at Harry through his lashes. “Just for the night, I mean. Will that stuff still work in the morning?”

Harry caps the pot again. His eyes are shining, and Draco’s filled with a deep sense of satisfaction—this is partly for him, yes, he wants to feel these marks for a while longer, but when he can do something extra for Harry, can help make _him_ feel as special as he makes _Draco_ feel… Well. That’s what love is all about, isn’t it?

**Author's Note:**

> the tumblr post for this fic is [here](https://bonesliketambourines.tumblr.com/post/633184723629441024/kinktober-day-25-in-advance).


End file.
